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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038228">if i can't relate to you anymore, then who am i related to?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokentombstone/pseuds/brokentombstone'>brokentombstone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, and together him and Alayne overcome Petyr while...falling in love, basically this is a Jon comes to the Eyrie AU to plead for assistance in fighting for Winterfell, but we also touch on Jon's resurrection, it's about the trauma, mostly about Sansa's identity as Alayne, oh to be known</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:14:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,060</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038228</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokentombstone/pseuds/brokentombstone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne watches him. </p>
<p>She knows. In her bones she knows. But her mouth doesn’t let her form the words. Her mind doesn’t let her consciously acknowledge it. Because it cannot be, it can never be. If she lets herself accept the startling truth she can't unknow it, and then every carefully crafted facade will come crashing down. </p>
<p>Because the man is Jon Snow. And Jon Snow can’t know that she is Sansa Stark. </p>
<p>(Because she’s not. She’s Alayne Stone. And somehow that’s more dangerous).</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Or;</p>
<p>Jon comes to the Eyrie. Alayne remembers.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Snow/Alayne Stone, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>if i can't relate to you anymore, then who am i related to?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i've wanted to write an Alayne AU basically forever. and this is that. honestly big shoutout to taylor swift for releasing evermore and reigniting my writing inspiration. i haven't been working on my WIP (the s8 au) but now that this is done that will have all my focus. </p>
<p>only other thing before going into this is that I didn't go back and fact check anything with the books so this is literally just what i wanted and i've extended the timeline, jon and sansa are the ages they would be when they met in the show, so Sansa has been in the Eyrie for a bit longer i suppose. *shrug emoji*</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>are we just like hungry wolves, howling in the night?</em>
  </strong>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>As most things these days, Alayne isn’t expecting it. She’s learned to lose her preconceived notions, her safe realities where she can predict the script. It’s only left her hanging before. So she’s learned to adapt, to think on her feet and live moment to moment, slipping into whatever each interaction demands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But when she is fetched to greet a visitor to the Eyrie she thinks she’s safe. She’s been caring for day to day mundanities for long enough. Petyr leaves her here while he travels. (While he schemes). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An attendant finds her with Myranda. A rushed “My Lady” leaves his lips and something shakes loose in Alayne’s spine. A memory. Another life. It’s been happening more frequently, these slipups from those in the Eyrie. She is a bastard, Alayne Stone, Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter. But in the same breath she is the Lady of the Eyrie. Lysa is dead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne plasters on a smile and Myranda rises to follow her out of the room, down the stairs to their visitors. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne smooths her skirts. She knows that if things were to ever go poorly that Petyr will hear about it, and if Petyr hears of anything she’s done wrong or even if she mildly displeases him, if he thinks she has tarnished the name they are making here. Well. Alayne does not want to see how that will turn out for her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myranda links her arm through her elbow, completely unbothered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who do you think it is? My father hasn’t said anything, did Lord Baelish let anything slip to you?” Myranda inquires. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne shakes her head, her dark hair falls across her eyes and she takes her free hand to brush it behind her ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Alayne says, “I’m sure it’s one of the lesser Lords. A tax problem or a quarrel with one of his neighbours. Nothing to fret about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myranda hums in agreement and soon enough they’re at the entry hall doors. Alayne frees her arm from Myranda and takes a slight step ahead of her to indicate her position to their guests. Petyr trusts her to do this, to take on these duties. And part of her knows this is what she was trained for. Even if she’s just a bastard, she’ll always know how to square her shoulders and hold her head high. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She opens the door and walks into the hall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hears Myranda behind her but she takes in the scene before her. The hall is nearly full. She sees her own guards to her left, by the ancient throne that the Lord of the Eyrie traditionally sits. (But Robin is dead too, and Petyr isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>). Alayne had intended to take the seat herself but she almost comes to a full stop upon realizing how many people are supposedly waiting for her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are some twenty odd men milling about. They’re all dressed in black. Rather shabby. And it takes her all of three seconds to put it together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Men of the Night’s Watch. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had seen them of course, growing up— she stops herself. She takes a few hesitant steps forward, none of the men seem to have noticed her yet. They look war weary and as if they could do with a good meal, maybe a hot bath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Does guest rite apply to men of the Night’s Watch? Alayne searches her mind for the answer. What could they want? She feels her mouth drying up. A knot twists in her stomach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myranda clears her throat and Alayne has to stop herself from turning to her. But it does the trick. All the men turn at once to where they are standing. Only they don’t turn to Myranda though, they turn to her, to Alayne. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their faces blur together for a moment. A random group of strangers. Of men she has been taught to fear but also to respect. It takes a few seconds for the faces to separate. For her to start seeing individual features. A crooked nose. A missing eye. A long face. A stout man with a potbelly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes land on the figure in the middle. He’s the one who takes a step forward, uncertain, and speaks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My Lady,” He starts, almost stumbles over the title, as if it twists on his lips and burns his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it is that mannerism which draws Alayne’s eye. That which flickers deep within her, like a dying candle on the eve of the coldest winter. And her eyes find his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her heart lodges in her throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dark hair. Tied back but messed from the road. Scars on his face. Lines around his eyes that weren’t there the last she saw them. A stiff set to his shoulders. Mouth set in a frown, when was it ever not? And there in his eyes, something haunted. (Or is that only her own reflection?)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne watches him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knows. In her bones she knows. But her mouth doesn’t let her form the words. Her mind doesn’t let her consciously acknowledge it. Because it cannot be, it can never be. If she lets herself accept the startling truth she can't unknow it, and then every carefully crafted facade will come crashing down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because the man is Jon Snow. And Jon Snow can’t know that she is Sansa Stark. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Because she’s not. She’s Alayne Stone. And somehow that’s more dangerous). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa’s rooted to the spot. And in that moment she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sansa. With every fibre of her being that thought rushes through her like a bolt of lightning from a summer storm. She knows it. She can almost see red hair whipping around her head in her periphery if she tries hard enough. She stands there stripped. As if Jon can see every truth she’s had to work for years to erase. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then she finds his eyes. And there is no flicker of recognition. No half formed name on his lips. Only expectancy for a response and perhaps some concern at her long pause. That and the same haunted gaze in him she saw the first time. She can almost feel Myranda’s eyes burning a hole in her back. She never falters like this. But it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jon. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And she still hasn’t drawn breath since she realized. So when she speaks it comes out in a rush as all her air escapes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m no Lady, my Lord,” Alayne says, because even though she’s realized it’s the Night Watch it may be better to plead ignorance, “I’m merely Lord Baelish’s bastard daughter. Alayne Stone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the first time the name doesn’t taste like acid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She watches as Jon appraises her, seemingly in a new light. His eyes don’t dance but his mouth quirks up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My apologies Alayne,” Jon says and hearing his voice wrap around the syllables of her alias makes something settle deep within her, as if her transformation into this entirely other person has been completed, even her past can’t touch her here, “I’ve just never seen a bastard in such fineries.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Alayne nearly bursts out laughing. She wants to challenge him. A quip nearly leaves her before she can stop herself. To tell him that while she’s come to understand him better, to see his life through the eyes of a bastard herself, she knows he didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>for anything at Winterfell. He was likely the bastard held in the highest regard of the entire realm. Yet he is going to stand there and gawk at her mere black frock?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>But her words die in her throat. Jon’s eyes are teasing her. But not </span>
  <em>
    <span>her. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Alayne. And she realizes at once that her thoughts were not those of Alayne’s, but of Sansa’s. Jon hasn’t recognized her, she doesn’t think so anyways, but he has her feeling as if she is being held over the moon door. She takes in a deep breath. Sets her jaw. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I’ve no idea who you are my Lord, may I ask why you have come all the way to the Eyrie?” Alayne forces herself to remain formal, removed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Jon draws himself up to his full height. (She reminds herself they’re cut from the same cloth. They learned the same courtesies. Under the same damn roof nonetheless). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m no Lord either,” Jon sighs but there are several grumbles from his men, “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. My name is Jon Snow. I’ve come to ask for The Eyrie’s help in retaking Winterfell.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne’s heart pounds. She swears everyone in the hall can hear it. Her ears are hot, she thinks she must be sweating right out of her dress. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And why would we do that my Lord?” Alayne’s voice is hoarse and she’s already planning an escape route from this conversation because she thinks she can predict what Jon is about to say next. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she is wrong. (He doesn’t resurrect her ghosts, not yet). Jon raises his eyebrows, slightly incredulous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is your father here Alayne?” Jon asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dammit Jon. Alayne fumes at that. At the implication that she is a simple girl. She is a woman grown. Jon is a man. But the basis of her sex will never have anyone see her as more than her father’s daughter. (Either of her fathers). It boils her blood and it’s why her words come out more haughty than she intends. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I tend to all matters of state while he is away, whatever you would say to him can be said to me,” Alayne levels Jon with a look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon narrows his eyes and seems to come to a decision. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No offense intended. I merely meant that it is well known that the Starks and the Arryns were long standing allies,” Jon says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hearing Jon say </span>
  <em>
    <span>Starks </span>
  </em>
  <span>makes her quiver. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The Arryns are dead,” Her voice is barely audible and what she had wanted to say was that the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Starks </span>
  </em>
  <span>are dead. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She </span>
  </em>
  <span>is dead. But Jon hears her. The rest of the hall too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes go wide and whispers go through the ranks of his men. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We heard of Lysa Arryn’s untimely passing. But we believed her son, Lord Robin, still lived?” Jon asked, unnerved. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne looks grim. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He was a sickly child,” Alayne says, daring Jon to say more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see,” Jon sighs, “Well, then I will plead my case to you Alayne.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne crosses her arms and waits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps you aren’t aware,” Jon says and takes a step closer to her, “I said I was Jon Snow. I am the bastard son of the late Lord Eddard Stark. I believed until recently that I was the last of my father’s children. But if rumours are to be believed, the Boltons, who currently occupy Winterfell, have my sister captive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne stood still through his entire speech. She’d been ready when he uttered their father's name. Had felt the keen sting of that particular nightmare. But then on his last words she cracks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Arya?” her voice goes up a pitch and she has to stop herself from crying right there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon looks at her oddly. He squints and Alayne thinks he will see it now. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopes </span>
  </em>
  <span>he sees it now. But he blinks a few times and shakes his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve heard of her?” Jon’s voice is hopeful for the first time and it nearly breaks Alayne all over again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne swallows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am well trained on the lineages of the great houses. It was my mistake not recognizing you as Eddard Stark’s bastard, Jon in an awfully common name. My error. But I’ve heard nothing of your sister being at Winterfell, we are rather remote here at the Eyrie. I thought you had another sister as well…” Alayne trails off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she knows she’s pushing her luck. Making Jon think of her here and now, when it’s achingly obvious. But somehow he hasn’t figured it out and she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to say the words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s me Jon. It’s Sansa. It’s your sister. Take me away from here. Save me, we’re the last of us. Let us find Arya and go home. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon shakes his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not Sansa, her red hair would be a giveaway. No word on her since the wedding, I’ve kept my ears open. It has to be Arya.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He said her </span>
  <em>
    <span>name. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And Sansa bites her lip until she tastes blood to stop from screaming. She’s been Alayne for so long and hearing it hurts, even if it feels like home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon looks to her, seemingly still waiting for her to offer help. Help that isn’t hers to give. But she decides anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let us speak it over dinner. You and your men look as if you could use a good wash and a hot meal, I’ll have my attendants ready some quarters for you and we will have a feast of sorts. It is the least the Eyrie can do for an old ally,” Alayne says firmly, leaving no room for any questions or objections. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon looks at her in surprise but he nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’d appreciate it Alayne.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods in return. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(And for the first time in years she feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen</span>
  </em>
  <span> as Jon glances back at her, even as he is led from the room. As if he is trying to recall a dream slipping away as you come back to consciousness.)</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Alayne stands in front of her mirror and searches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Searches for the girl she once was, strips back the veneer of the woman she has become. If there’s anything left of Sansa Stark she has to find it, has to remind herself of who she is. Who she was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her hair is dark, onyx, obscuring any of the bright flames she used to have. And the years of dye have even changed the texture. It hangs limply around her face so she decides to pull it back in two braids. Her mother did the same style for her when she was young. She shouldn’t let herself think about that right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But maybe Jon will remember. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myranda had chastised her all the way out of the chamber room, drilled her with a series of questions, demanding what her problem was, why had she floundered so badly in front of these men? Was she that scared of the Night Watch here in her own castle?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If only Myranda knew, Alayne thinks as she separates her hair and pulls her first braid tight against her scalp. The feeling is familiar, she can almost imagine it’s not her own hands working through her hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Myranda knew the truth, if she suspected. Alayne has thought maybe before that she had, that Myranda knew more than she let on, but her cryptic remarks, her strange stares, they’d dropped off in the last year and Alayne was thankful for it. And today she hadn’t been suspicious, she’d been almost concerned. Concerned about Alayne’s reactions, her strange words and the way she had nearly crumbled because of Jon Snow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne knows that she must do better. She had sent Myranda away and gone to the cooks to set out orders for a modest feast. She’d come back to her own rooms to prepare herself. She already knows she will have to endure a sustained conversation with Jon, that she will have no choice but to sit near to him while her skin feels like it burns from the proximity of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She finishes her second braid and then she catches her reflection. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a minute the light plays a trick and she’s a little girl again. Her hair flashes red. Her cheeks turn rosy and she breaks into a smile. But she blinks and the image is gone. She is Alayne Stone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She has changed into an even finer dress than the one Jon criticized her for, something of a lingering spite she supposes. Her hair sharpens her features, highlights her cheekbones, the hollows below them. Her mouth that rarely has reason to form a smile that isn’t forced. But something in her eyes is still there, begs to be seen, silently screams: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sansa. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if the mirror compels her to, she reaches a hand to the cold surface and places her palm flat against it. She feels her own heartbeat, pulsing steady. She’s alive. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa Stark. Alayne Stone. Sansa. Alayne. Her. They’re all her. Every iteration of the person she’s had to be since she left Winterfell. They hum inside her. Trying to break free after all the years she’s spent pushing them down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she can’t help but think of Jon. Her dark hair and cool eyes, blue to his grey, make them more alike than they ever have been. And hasn’t she used him as her mould? All these years pretending to be something she’s not, using the one concrete example she could recall, tried to replicate his mannerisms, his sullenness, his obscurity, but also his honour, his pride, his innate goodness that she hadn't given him enough credit for. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Part of her had asked for this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, it would be so sweet to see him once again. But that could never be. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She had spoken too soon. It could be. It had happened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her father, killed in front of her, and for nothing. There’d been no sweet vengeance. When Joffrey’s death had come it was a mere consolation prize for all her family had endured. Her mother and Robb, slain by the Boltons and the Freys, betrayed by their own men. She’d never known when she left that it would be the last time she saw them. Sweet boys, Bran and Rickon, burned by the traitor Theon Greyjoy. She feels ill when she thinks of their corpses hung above the walls of their family’s castle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Arya. Arya might be alive. She’s not sure she believes Jon, though she might be willing to hope. If it will get her out of the Vale, if it will bring her home she can hope for anything. But even if Arya is gone, ashes on the wind, Sansa is still not the last Stark. Not anymore. Not with Jon in the castle at the very moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s more of a Stark than me, he always has been. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Alayne thinks bitterly as she turns from the mirror and holds back her salty tears. She doesn’t hold it against him. But she can’t even utter her own name to herself. Not when it’s safer to be Alayne. Not when the name of Sansa Stark has brought her nothing but pain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne gives one sniff and heads to the door, bracing herself for the evening ahead.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Jon can’t help but be reminded of feasts at Winterfell. Only this time he’s seated at the high table. It’s been many years since he has had food like this, since he’s been brought wine by a serving maid. It’s all very strange, yet there’s something comforting in the familiarity. As if he is dining with an old friend. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But there are no old friends here. A ragtag crew of twenty worse for wear Night’s Watch men that he was able to corral into coming with him to the Eyrie. The residents of the Eyrie. And then Alayne Stone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne. He can’t stop rolling her name on his tongue. She hadn’t factored into his plans. His plans had centred on a young boy, on Robin Arryn. On a mere chance that if his keeper, Lord Baelish, were hovering that they would be able to talk like men. Jon always knew it had been a slim chance. But there were words on the wind that he had once held affection for Lady Stark, and while there’d been no love lost between her and Jon, he hoped the tenuous connection might be enough. Especially with the chance of Arya’s survival. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he’d arrived to Alayne. And in the hours that had passed since their arrival Jon has thought of little else. They’d been given hot baths and shown to a rundown wing of the castle. He appreciated it all the same, more than he ever would have dared asked for. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seeing her, this bastard girl—No, woman, Jon thinks to himself, run an entire castle in her father’s absence. It had given Jon a lot to think about as he had let the hot bath water work over his tight muscles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Stannis’ death, before his </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>death, and before Melisandre brought him back, he had wrestled with the morality of it. Of ruling Winterfell himself. He’d crumbled under the weight of that which had been placed on his shoulders since birth. He is a bastard, he will never hold the lands of his father, of his brothers, of now his sisters. To break any of that was a slight to the Gods themselves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robb. Bran. Rickon. They were lost to him. He’d thought Arya too. But he’d told Stannis in no uncertain terms that Winterfell belonged to Sansa. But where was she? She hadn’t been heard from since Joffrey’s wedding. Jon hoped privately that if she did have something to do with the King’s death, that she had escaped. Far from here. Somewhere in Essos, in the heat and sun. Somewhere with someone to look after her. If anyone could ever deserve that peace it was Sansa. After all she had lost. This world had been cruel to her. To all of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(But Jon knew it was more likely that she was dead somewhere. Or she was being held out of anyone’s reach. A pawn in the greater game. It made him sick to think about). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of that mattered though with Arya potentially being held within Winterfell’s walls. If an heir remained… a </span>
  <em>
    <span>legitimate </span>
  </em>
  <span>heir. Then it was Jon’s duty to save her. To assist her in ruling Winterfell if necessary. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet for Alayne the ruling came easily. The job seemed natural to her, there was no unease in her. If anything she seemed only unnerved by Jon and completely sure of herself. He couldn’t blame her for that, she’d likely never seen a man of the Night’s Watch before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stabs at some of the food on his plate and glances at her out of the corner of his eye. They’ve barely exchanged anything but pleasantries since being seated, but the hall is bustling and discussion of what is to come will happen later with the wine flowing, he is sure. But he wonders how much can be done with her father gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon tears at his meat and chews when he hears something he doesn’t mean to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>rather cute I suppose–” the other woman to Alayne’s left hisses, he thinks her name is Myranda. But she cuts herself off when Jon’s eyes meet hers and then advert just as quickly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne looks between the two of them and Jon has the pleasure of watching her entire face redden as she busies herself with the food and lets the conversation around them envelope their awkward moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon stares straight ahead and doesn’t turn to Alayne and Myranda again. His mind swirls. Growing up he hadn’t been around many bastards. At the Night’s Watch there were countless men who were bastard born. But no women. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had always thought it seemed crueller in a way for a girl to be destined to this life. Less options for them, less routes of escape. More chance of violence, of servitude. Yet Alayne exhibited none of that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And something tugged in Jon’s gut when he stared at her. He almost felt a strange kinship to the woman despite only just meeting her. Her dark hair and clothes made her porcelain skin glisten, especially in the candlelight of their dining hall. But her blue eyes. They’d caught Jon’s attention from the start. So clear. They reminded him of being at the top of the wall, of staring off into infinity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And they reminded him of something else… something he couldn’t quite recall. Like a dream half forgotten by the time you’re opening your eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon is done eating when Alayne finally speaks, enough time having passed since the slip up Myranda had. He notices the other woman is now turned to someone on the other side of her, giving the two of them as much privacy as she can in the crowded room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So what is it you would require from the Eyrie to recapture Winterfell?” Alayne asks without looking at him. She’s playing with her fork of all things, spinning it infront of her face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon wipes his hands on his napkin and turns slightly towards her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Men mostly,” Jon says, “We have a fair amount of Night’s Watch, some Wildlings too, and the remnants of Stannis Baratheon’s army who didn’t freeze when they tried to lay siege to the castle.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne stops turning her fork and turns to study him. Jon wants to falter under her gaze. Her eyes seem to burn right through him and he can’t predict what she will say next. He gulps. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what in return will the Eyrie gain if we decide to send aid to you?” Alayne asks, voice unwavering. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon clenches his jaw. Because he’s had ages to propose a nice deal. Trade deals and priority marriages between the noblest of houses, all the things typical of a military alliance. Renewing the faith between the Starks and the Arryns. But now he knows the Arryns are dead, and the Starks are near extinct too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In truth, he had planned to propose a marriage between Arya, if she did live, and her cousin Robin, if it seemed to appeal to Lord Baelish. Finding out that Robin is dead put an end to that possibility. Though Jon can’t find it in himself to hate it too much, Arya would hate the idea and the thought of arranging a marriage for her left a bitter taste in his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(And if Arya was to go to the Eyrie then who would’ve ruled Winterfell? It was a question he mulled over more often than not). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon breathes out slowly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think much can be gained from both sides. We both have resources the others would want. Marriage alliances between some of the North’s prestigious families and those of the Vale as well for security purposes. Is there anything specific you or your father are in need of?” Jon asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne keeps studying him. He wonders what she sees because she remains unreadable to him. Finally she looks away, out across the room as if in contemplation. After a moment she stops. She folds her hands in her lap, looks down demurely and then up at him through her lashes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know not what my father could need from you. But I think you could be of use to me, Jon Snow. There would be much to discuss, I think more privately. However, an alliance between myself and you would be most advantageous. I have my own reasons for wanting to help you regain Winterfell,” Alayne finishes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Jon’s jaw goes slack. What is she talking about? He has no clue what she is implying. She seems to be on a different agenda than her father, if not completely working against him. But what is her angle? Jon feels hot all of a sudden, his palms sweat and he’s nervous. He has an odd feeling that this won’t end well for any of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When does your father return?” Jon’s voice drops an octave to keep out prying ears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The slightest smile pulls at the corner of Alayne’s mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We have time. Three or four weeks,” Alayne pulls something out of the breast pocket in her dress and places it into Jon’s hand before he realizes what’s happening, “Give this to the guard at the doors to West Wing tonight, come to my chamber. Fourth door on the left.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne pushes her chair back then and makes her way to the far edge of the room, opens the door without looking back. Myranda looks at her empty chair and then locks eyes with Jon who is still sitting there gobsmacked, she narrows her eyes at him and moves to follow Alayne. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon finally looks at the paper Alayne has put in his hand. He unfolds it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a crude drawing, but he imagines it’s supposed to be a drawing of herself, of Alayne. And though the lines are simple, he imagines he sees something wolfish in the grin she’s painted red.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Alayne sits at her table and waits for Jon to come to her. She’d really been daring him to remember her the entirety of their conversation over dinner. Part of her wonders if she ever was Sansa, if not even Jon can remember her, if not even he knows the truth of who she is, then what has it all been for? Is she only Alayne now?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pushes the thoughts from her mind as she works the braids out of her hair to let it fall loose down her back. Blood rushes back into her temples as the tension is released. She rubs the heel of her hand into the base of her skull to help with the lingering pressure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There had been a moment, when she’d pressed the note into Jon’s hand where she had felt something… something uncouth. With his eyes on her. Eyes on her in a way that she had long since felt. It was just a reaction to being seen, she knew that. Even if he wasn’t seeing </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It still untangled a bit of the knot in her heart. So she promised to watch herself more closely from now on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(But Myranda’s words still echoed in her ears. If only Myranda realized just what she was implying with her fairytales). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne slips off some of her jewelry while she waits for Jon to arrive. Her plan has been formulating for hours now. She will have to be careful. She doesn’t even know if she should tell Myranda. But even though Jon doesn’t know who she is yet, she knows she will be able to trust him with this. And if she senses any distrust on his part she will reveal herself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’ll help her then. He’ll have to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just then she hears the long anticipated knock on her door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door creaks open and Jon steps into the candlelight of her chambers. She gestures for him to sit and he takes several steps to the empty chair across from her. She reaches for the flagon and pours some wine for him that she had brought up for their conversation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lord Snow,” Alayne nods and takes a swig of her own wine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon reaches for his glass cautiously, “Lady Stone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne’s eyes go wide and Jon smirks. There’s something shared here Alayne realizes, yet she feels like an imposter. Because she’s not a bastard, not really. And while Jon </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a Lord, (of the Night Watch but it counts), Alayne is not a Lady. Not a Lady, not a Bastard, instead something in between and she can’t help but feel like Jon would look at her differently if he knew the truth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me how you came to this position. It is not often a bastard, and a girl nonetheless, has rule over one of the oldest castles in the realm,” Jon asks and takes another drink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne doesn’t take offense this time but it does take her a moment to respond. She thinks Jon is about to speak again when she settles on her answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When my father came back to the Eyrie he brought me with him as a way to try and raise my position. His plan worked better than even he could have suspected. I’ve been here a few years now and I am held in high regard,” Alayne says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon seems to consider her and then nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose my own upbringing was quite different,” Jon muses, “I grew up in Winterfell with five trueborn Starks for siblings. I loved them truly and I think they did the same… perhaps not Sansa though she was—” Jon chuckles gruffly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne can’t help herself, “She was what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon refocuses on her and looks as if he is thinking hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. I misspoke. She did love me. But she was the one who separated us the most. Which was smart on her part in the end, she was the only one who was honest with how our births divide us. She went South and I went to the Wall. No point in forming attachments,” Jon sighs, lost in his own memories. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne trembles, her wine rocks against the sides of her glass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was the South so much kinder to your sister though, from what I’ve heard…” Alayne trails off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon barks one hard laugh, cold as ice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. The South was nothing but cruel to her I imagine. Our father killed in front of her and then she was held hostage for years. And now she’s disappeared.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne nods once. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve lost my siblings as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a dangerous stupid lie. It’s not part of Alayne’s story, the one she has crafted with Petyr. But she can’t help but want to reach for Jon. To call out to him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We are the same. Different yet still the same. Can’t you see it, see me?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon looks to her to go on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Killed, or dead mostly. Lost at the end of the day. I’ve learned to look out for myself. I’ve been the only person I could count on for quite some time now. It’s safer that way,” Alayne says and stares at her own wine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And your father?” Jon asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes are earnest. They still appear ghostly to her, and she wonders </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>happened to him. What has he endured while she suffered at the hands of the Lannisters. Such different journeys but they must have their similarities. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne gives a brief shake of her head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I trust him least of all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon purses his lips. And then he reaches across the table to grab Alayne’s hand. He squeezes it once and she looks up to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What can we do?” Jon asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne swallows. This is it. Her chance to lay it all out. So she does. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kill him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Jon is surprised he doesn’t show it. Something has hardened in him since they last met, just as it has in her. He releases her hand and downs the rest of his wine and looks more resolved than he did moments ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And if we do this you can get the men of the Eyrie to follow us North?” Jon asks her, his eyes searching for any deceptions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he doesn’t find any because </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>is earnest too. She nods once. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon leans back in his chair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me our first move.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And with that, it begins. Alayne reaches for her parchment. </span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>“But Alayne—” Myranda starts again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Myranda, I already told you—” Alayne sighs as she reaches for her friend’s corset and starts to tie up the intricate laces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myranda yanks herself around to face Alayne, taking the corset ribbons and Alayne’s fingers with her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There is talk throughout the castle. Jon Snow has been here nearly a fortnight now. I wouldn’t doubt that half the realm has heard of his extended stay here and it wouldn’t surprise me if your father was rushing back as we speak, I’m half shocked that my own father hasn’t made the journey if he’s heard we’re hosting a legion of men from the Night’s Watch,” Myranda says and pierces Alayne with a look of skepticism. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne sighs again and continues to work on Myranda’s corset. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He won’t be here much longer,” Alayne concedes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myranda responds quickly, “But why is he even here in the first place? There are whispers that you’re intending to help him with Winterfell. We need not concern ourselves with Northern affairs. Lord Baelish will say the same thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne finishes the final pieces of the lacing and ties Myranda tightly into her dress. Her friend turns around to face her and Alayne decides some honesty for once might be best. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My father has had interest in the North for a while. I’ve been meeting with our most trusted Lords in the meantime to see what can be done, Jon leaves soon don’t worry. I think my father wouldn’t mind having stronger allies in the North.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is a half truth. Littlefinger (as she’d taken to thinking of him as since Jon has arrived) has his long game. And she knows the basis of it. Marry her to Harry Hardyng. Take care of Harry Hardyng after she’s secured her claim to the Vale. Marry her while revealing her true identity and secure his </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>claim over the North. It’s a nice plan. It’s a clever plan. But Alayne’s own plans differ slightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because by the time anyone is laying claims to the North, Littlefinger should be dead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t shock her as much as she thought it might. She has depended on Littlefinger for so long now that at first it seemed impossible to think of surviving without him. But now Jon is here and things are different. Alayne is stronger. (Sansa grows stronger every day). It’s almost like having Jon here is a salve, a healing balm. It’s like she’s drawing her strength from him, like he is Winterfell himself and she’s finally home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myranda snaps her out of her thoughts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even so. I don’t think your father will be overly pleased with how much time you’ve been spending with that Jon Snow,” Myranda says as she starts working on her own hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne rolls her eyes, comes to stand behind her in the mirror. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re the one who said he was handsome,” Alayne says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myranda laughs, high and bright. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s got a Northern ruggedness to him. But I think he’s hard underneath. And it doesn’t matter because he’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And I know your father has higher prospects for you Alayne,” Myranda says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And a quiet anger simmers in her heart at Myranda’s words. Because Jon </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a bastard. But Myranda thinks she is too so what is she even saying? Littlefinger’s plans be damned. And what does Jon’s birth even matter, she was small minded for ever thinking it meant anything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then a smaller voice whispers in her ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s only your half-brother, not near as bad as a true blooded brother. Nothing like a twin. Not Cersei and Jaime. Just Jon and Sansa. Almost-could be cousins, in another life. Almost far enough apart, but still too close. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne gulps involuntarily. Myranda doesn’t notice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s wicked. Something has gone wrong in her all these years spent captive. She’s sick. And if she keeps telling herself that then maybe those dark thoughts she’s been trying not to entertain will dwindle and die. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because the last ten days have been magical. But Jon still doesn’t know. And sometimes she’ll feel him watching her. They stay up late going over their plans, talking it out. Talking about the future. And he doesn’t know. His eyes linger on her lips. His hand brushed her hair out of her face the other night and she thought she would burn on the spot. But she can’t bring herself to stop it. To say the words that would halt the foregone conclusion that she knows is unavoidable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because she loves it too damn much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myranda puts down her hairbrush and turns back to Alayne again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m just saying. Don’t get attached. I see the way you look at him Alayne,” Myranda places a hand on her arm, “It’s like he’s ignited something in your soul, I can see it in your eyes. You’ve changed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myranda lets her go and heads to the door, leaving Alayne standing there stunned.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Alayne keeps reading the letter. She can’t stop herself from tracing the calligraphy, familiar yet feeling so far away from her already. She mutters the words under her breath even though they’ve been memorized, on loop through her mind since the first time she read them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She asked Jon to come to her chambers, against her better judgement, but he needs to know and the sooner the better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Three days. Littlefinger is returning in three days. Part of her is surprised that he even told her he is returning. But he doesn’t have any reason to mistrust her right now. None except he knows that her half brother has been in the Eyrie with her for a fortnight and she hasn’t made him leave. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last line of the letter rings in her head, cryptic but a threat clear as day to her who knows the truth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>While you entertain our guests from the North make sure not to forget our aims Alayne. All I have done is for you, and you wouldn’t want any wrinkles to crop up and put your spot in question. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His words would seem strange to an outsider but to Alayne they aren’t clouded. Jon poses a threat to her own claim to the North. To Littlefinger’s claim.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sighs and folds the paper, slides it into a pocket in her dress and takes a long sip from her tea she had brought to her when the letter arrived. She needs to be clear headed, it is not a night for wine. Not when so much hangs in the balance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door creaks open and Jon slides in. He has long since stopped knocking on the door to announce himself. They’re comfortable enough with each other now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes one look at her and closes the door behind him and slips into what she now thinks of as his seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” his voice trembles ever so slightly with worry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks to the lines on his face and she finds herself unable to speak. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She recalls, a few nights ago, how he had told her of the unspeakable things that happened to him. Of how it felt when the knife slid between his ribs and there was nothingness for what felt like ever. Until the Red Woman had brought him back and that had somehow been even worse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne had taken it in stride while her heart hammered out of her chest. She’d nearly lost Jon too and she hadn’t even known it. How long would that news have taken to travel, to reach her in the Eyrie? How would she have reacted if she’d truly knew them all to be dead? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it explains what she sees in his eyes now. The hardness that tells her he is ready to go to war, to move mountains to fix something if she says the word. Because he’s come to care for her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne swallows thickly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My father will return in three days,” her voice is garbled to her own ears but Jon tenses at her words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re ready. Everything is in place, you know whose loyalties you have when the time comes. And if you don’t, then I’ll protect you,” Jon promises. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she thinks of all she has shared with him. The half truths she’s been able to manipulate to paint him as clear a picture as she can. How her father views her as a pawn, how he wants to marry her to Harry the Heir for power in the Vale but how she knows he will abuse that power, use it for his own gain. She’s even told him versions of her past, told him that he left her in King’s Landing at the mercy of nobles, only to come and claim to save her, when it was his fault in the first place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wishes she could tell him all of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s going to be on guard. He won’t trust you,” Alayne continues and turns to study the fire, flickering in the corner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sees in her periphery as Jon’s eyebrows furrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He has no reason to mistrust me, he doesn’t even know me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon’s voice is incredulous. And she’s been wondering how best to word what she has to say next. It’s best that he knows. She only hopes she has the strength to get through the words without breaking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He loved Catelyn Stark you know, from the time she was a girl. When she was a Tully,” Alayne manages to get through it until the last word and then her breath hitches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something in Jon closes off as she turns back to him and it slides into place for him, why Littlefinger would distrust Ned Stark’s bastard on principle. And she can see it in him as that weighs on him, his birth status plagues him wherever he goes. And she wants to reach for him, she wants to tell him that it’s alright. She wants to heal what has been fractured, to tell him that he’s a Stark. That he’ll always be a Stark and anyone who says different doesn’t have the right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon remains silent so Alayne pushes onward. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We go through with everything as planned. I don’t foresee any issues. His letter unnerved me, that's all. And… I wanted to see you. It’s been a long day,” Alayne says and almost instantly regrets it because Jon’s eyes light up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They light up with a brightness she doesn’t deserve. As if she’s his salvation. And she wonders what she could’ve done to earn such devotion in such a short time. Is it his subconscious telling him that even though his eyes have betrayed him his heart knows the truth, he’s drawn to her because part of him realizes she is Sansa? It’s possible. Somehow it’s worse than just thinking that he has come to care for Alayne. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alayne pushes her chair up abruptly and stands before Jon can say anything. She walks hastily to the fire and pretends she needs to warm her hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It feels as if I’m so close to being free and it’s hard to believe, that’s all. Sorry for calling you here for nothing,” Alayne says and continues to rub her hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hears Jon moving behind her and he comes to stand beside her. Then she feels him place a hand on her lower back and she goes rigid. Jon doesn’t seem to notice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t let him hurt you Alayne. I’ll protect you, I promise,” Jon’s voice is low, almost possessive in its notes and a thrill goes up her spine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turns ever so slightly and finds his face much closer than she expected. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon looks down at her, and she’s overcome. He’s so handsome. There’s nothing but truth in every feature, in his stormy eyes and his parted lips, chapped from years beyond the wall. It’s a truth she thinks she would die to deserve. But at the same time something swells in her stomach, a deep feeling of unease. Because this isn’t the truth. Not from her. She’s tricking him and she’s deranged for what she feels. There’s nothing that could be </span>
  <em>
    <span>less </span>
  </em>
  <span>sacred than what she’s thinking and yet—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon’s other hand finds her back and he’s embracing her, pulling her closer to him. All while maintaining eye contact, never drawing away from her eyes. She freezes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alayne,” Jon breathes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he leans in. Alayne doesn’t have time to react. Doesn’t have time to push back. Because Jon’s lips press against hers and every other thought leaves her at once. They’re chapped, just like she noticed. But they taste like the cold, like a winter storm in the dead of night. And she closes her eyes, kisses back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon pulls her flush against him as his lips trace hers. She brings her hands up to his hair. She knots her fingers into his curls at the nape of his neck, keeping a steady pressure to hold his face to hers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kiss is sweet. It’s full of need, and longing. And some deep, terrible, </span>
  <em>
    <span>aching, </span>
  </em>
  <span>sadness. And she thinks in that respect they’re the same. They’ve been alone for so long, they need something to cling to. A pair of warm lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She loses herself in the sensation. Their bodies move in tandem for several minutes and she focuses only on Jon’s lips and the beating of her own heart. It’s all that keeps her grounded, all that keeps her from floating away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Jon moans into her mouth and it’s like someone has blown out the fire in the room. It’s as if every nerve in her body burns at once, but burns with an icy cold that she wasn’t ready for. She breaks the kiss and pushes away from Jon at once. She’s gasping for air as she comes back into her body and Jon’s panting two feet away from her. She reaches for the mantle above the fireplace to her left to steady herself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alayne?” Jon asks, and his face is so fearful, so wonderfully innocent. Afraid that he has misstepped. Meanwhiles she’s panicking that she might just pass out. Actually, slipping into unconsciousness might be preferable at the moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because all at once she is no longer Alayne. It’s like Jon broke a spell in her, broke the last of the wall that’s been crumbling these last couple of weeks. And it washes over her. She is Sansa. She is Sansa Stark. Last known surviving child of Ned and Catelyn, unless Arya is truly in Winterfell. And she kissed Jon. She let Jon kiss her. And she is Sansa. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She is Sansa. And she is sinister. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon takes a hesitant step towards her, reaches out a hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa flinches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t I-I, just don’t. I can’t–You shouldn’t—” Sansa stutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alayne, what is it, I thought—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t call me that!” Sansa’s voice comes out harsher than she intended. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she must look utterly unmoored to Jon right now. Completely lost, madness in her eyes. Because who acts like that unless something is deeply unsettling them?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s your name…” Jon says hesitantly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa closes her eyes shut. And she shakes her head. She knows it’s coming. The moment of admission. And she can’t stop barrelling towards it as much as she wants to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not Alayne?” Jon asks, confused now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She keeps shaking her head as her eyes stay closed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She dives in head first. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sansa. It’s Sansa. I’m–I’m Sansa, Jon. Sansa Stark.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow it’s easier to say that than to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>your sister. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But when she opens her eyes Jon still hasn’t caught up. She watches though. Watches as it becomes clear for him. His eyes keep flickering from her eyes to her hair. Unwillingly to her body too she thinks. The room is dark, the fire is burning low, but she imagines the flames highlighting the suppressed red undertones hiding in her hair when Jon’s eyes go wide. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sansa,” Jon breathes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it’s so different than when he breathed </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alayne. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Different yet so much the same. It sends a flood of shame through her, shame and longing that mix together to create nothing but torture. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I–How?” Jon asks, his voice cracking and she sees his eyes filling with tears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s been… safer for me to masquerade as Littlefinger’s bastard while half the realm looks for a highborn girl with red hair,” Sansa says, her voice drained of all emotion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon swallows and nods. She can’t begin to imagine what’s going through his mind. She hopes it’s not too cruel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon runs a hand through his hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should go,” Jon says and turns to the door to leave. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa reaches for him on instinct. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to,” she calls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon turns to her in time to see her one hand suspended in front of her. Watch as it falls slowly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the strangest look crosses his face. Mournful, full of regret but something else too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes I do. Sansa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon opens the door and steps out, it shuts behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa’s waited years for someone to call her by her name again. She never thought it would hurt as much as it does now. </span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Time moves agonizingly slowly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa drifts. There’s not much to be done. She meets with several Lords over the next few days. She avoids Myranda. She navigates Jon. And most of all she forces herself to respond when someone says: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alayne. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She schools her expression into one of acknowledgement so she doesn’t seem like someone adrift in the sea without a lifeline, because since the spell has broken she can’t connect to it. Can’t connect to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alayne</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s not Alayne. She never has been. And the realization is startling, it terrifies her. It invigorates her. It breathes life back into her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She repeats the name so many times it loses all meaning. And she doesn’t let herself dwell on the fact that the voice in her head saying it is Jon’s. She thinks it will be cemented in her mind for the rest of her days. Because it was him, it was Jon who brought her out of that reverie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And despite the aftermath, she can’t make herself regret the act. When she’s not paying attention her lips will tingle, her thoughts will bring her back to him. Back to the dim room, to the silent sound of their lips moving as one, to the heat that flushed her face when his hands roamed all the way down her back. All the way back to the way his breath felt in her mouth, his beard left chafing marks on her chin. Unfamiliar but comforting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And maybe she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>sick. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because he made his stance clear. Jon knows right from wrong. He can check his feelings, something Sansa has apparently been incapable of doing. She can’t bring herself to stop thinking about what would’ve happened if she hadn’t pushed him away. And at night, alone in her chambers, she imagines. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s worse with the sun out. During her waking hours she sees Cersei everywhere. Hears her voice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Little Dove. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She will look appraising. Or worse, approving. Smug, always smug. And oh so superior. Because the Cersei she sees knows it all. Undoubtedly realizes the sinful feelings Sansa harbours and can’t help but feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>proud. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She always was a goddamn lion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Inside Sansa screams. It’s the worst part of it all. Thinking that she could be no different than the woman who made her life a living hell, that she is starting on the same dark and dangerous path that Cersei set foot on years ago. Then she looks to Jon and thinks </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe </span>
  </em>
  <span>it would be worth it). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So she carries around her shame and her guilt. But in her heart she’s Sansa again, and it’s so worth it. No amount of embarrassment can matter to her now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the moment she watches Jon. He’s purposefully not making eye contact with her. Hasn’t in days. Has only talked to her in groups. Never looks right at her. Myranda even picked up on the shift in energy between them. Sansa had brushed it off, citing that Jon is busy and the castle is preparing for Littlefinger’s return, there’s too much for everyone to do. Myranda hadn’t believed her, but it hardly matters now with what’s to come. Myranda is entitled to whatever reasons she came up with. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She has to count on the fact that their plan is unchanged. She has to have faith in Jon. And she does. She only hopes that he still has faith in her. That he can put aside anything else he may feel in order to help her, in order to save her. She says a silent prayer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s noise outside the chamber doors and Sansa takes in a deep breath. She feels Myranda touch her elbow in reassurance but she can’t look away from Jon. He’s still not watching her, his attention has been pulled to the door as everyone else's in the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then there is the briefest moment. Jon’s head tilts towards her. His eyes flicker to her. And they meet her own for the first time since that night. It’s half a second at most. But the pain she sees there, and surprisingly the guilt, is enough to suck all the air out of her lungs. Then they turn hard, and she knows she never had to worry about his faith. He’s Jon. She trusts him. And that’s all that matters. Jon turns away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doors start to open and Sansa grits her teeth, finally feeling like the wolf she was born to be.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Jon regrets turning towards her, regrets letting himself look for one fleeting moment. Because it only makes turning away more difficult. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t believe himself. He can’t believe how stupid he was. How blind. Part of him blames the resurrection. Part of him wonders if he’s just been willfully ignorant. And if he has, what does that say about his morality?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His own damn sister.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(She never told him though. He says it like a mantra, the only words that can comfort him. She made that choice). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s spent the better part of the last three days replaying every interaction they’ve had since he arrived. Scrutinizing them with the new perspective he has, with the lens of truth that had been clouded since he arrived. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In all honesty it made sense. Too much sense really. That Littlefinger would smuggle her out of the capital, take her away from the Lannisters. And it didn’t take Jon long to put together the other pieces of the puzzle. The ones that Sansa hadn’t been able to tell him when she was still pretending to be Alayne. It was up to Jon to fill in the blanks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sure, he believes that Littlefinger wants to marry Sansa to Harry Hardyng. If only to one day marry Sansa herself, cementing himself as the Lord of the Vale </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>Winterfell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Evil. Wicked. Twisted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Masterful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a foolproof plan if Jon has ever thought of one. And his stomach turns at the thought of how Sansa would have navigated it if he never showed up. Even if part of him thinks that she would’ve been fine and endured, like she always has. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shouldn’t have to. Nobody should have to endure what Sansa has gone through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he’d come here and only managed to fuck it up even worse. To have lustful thoughts for a woman. Something he should be wary of at the best of times, being a bastard and the Lord Commander doesn’t allow for those types of transgressions. And then it was her. It was Sansa.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(He can’t help but think of Ygritte. Kissed by fire. Blue eyes, crystal like a frozen pond. And it only makes him wish he could see Sansa’s red hair again. He shouldn’t think of Ygritte, it makes matters more complicated than he needs). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gulps as the door opens and an entourage of men step into the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Littlefinger is unmistakable. His long face, pointed chin, twisted beard. It screams something sinister and Jon’s hackles raise. He squares his shoulders and waits. Men file in behind him but less than Jon might have expected. Not even a dozen. They can take them if need be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Littlefinger’s eyes only land on him for the smallest fraction of a second, enough that he sees his nose turn up in disdain and not much more. No, Littlefinger only has eyes for Sansa and it takes all his restraint to not pummel the man right where he stands, to protect her from this monster who's already taken far too much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(But shouldn’t he punish himself equally as harsh, if his concern is her honour?)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa speaks first. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Father, we’ve been awaiting your arrival. I trust everything is in order?” her voice is calm, nothing unusual is signalled in the light timbre. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Littlefinger’s eyes narrow imperceptibly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Splendid Alayne. I did cut my journey short when I heard about our guests though,” Littlefinger says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The reprimand is clear as his eyes float around the room to the men of the Night’s Watch. They appraise the Lords who were already in the Eyrie, sizing them up almost, before his eyes land back on Sansa, awaiting a response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think we have much to discuss, father. If you’d do me the service of speaking to me privately. I’ve had a room prepared for us, food and drink is coming for your men as well,” Sansa says amicably. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Littlefinger’s eyes betray a bit of surprise and Jon can tell he hasn’t prepared for this. He seemed to be awaiting a sparring match. The woman who greeted him was all courtesies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A Lady’s Armor, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sansa had told him once. He has to fight to keep the smirk off his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Littlefinger nods and gestures for his men to take seats around the hall. He steps towards Sansa and Jon takes his cue to follow. It takes Littlefinger a moment to notice. He has almost followed Sansa right out of the room into a side chamber when he turns and sees Jon three steps behind them. He halts at once. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know who you think you are boy. But I need a moment alone with my daughter,” Littlefinger’s voice is quiet but biting. A few heads turn towards the three of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa is the one who answers, barely a whisper but cold as ice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s coming with us. Best to keep it in the family, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her command leaves no room for questions as she turns around and reaches for the door. Jon has the pleasure of watching Littlefinger’s face drain of blood, trapped between the two of them with no choice but to follow unless he wants a scene. It only takes him a moment to decide to deal with whatever it is they have in store for him because soon enough Jon is following them both through the door and closing it behind them. Without turning to look at the knob Jon makes sure it’s locked. Can’t be too careful now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The energy in the room shifts as Jon looks between Sansa and Littlefinger. He is appraising Sansa in a way that makes Jon’s skin crawl. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon moves to stand behind Sansa, he takes her flank and he hopes that it communicates to Littlefinger that </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>are the team now. That he has no place here any longer. That he never did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wolves have come. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Littlefinger merely sticks out his chin. Petulant. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is all this about Alayne–” He starts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa cuts across him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A simple word but it freezes Littlefinger in his tracks. And Jon realizes something. Sansa has more power over this man than she has ever realized. He has manipulated, controlled, and abused her at every turn. And yet. She is also his weakness, she is his blindspot. She is about to be his downfall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t dare to call me that. Not ever again. I am not Alayne. I am Sansa Stark. I’m the heir to Winterfell. And I am no longer your plaything, Petyr.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon can feel, even from a couple feet away, that Sansa is vibrating in her fury. That she is unleashing everything she has ever had to hold in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Littlefinger pales further. His lips pinch and for the first time he looks genuinely fearful. Jon sees him glance at the door. Unconsciously he seems to pull on his collar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sansa please, let us discuss this. I’ve been gone too long, don’t forget all that I’ve done for you–” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All you’ve used me for, you mean?” Sansa interrupts him once again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She takes a step forward and draws herself up to her full height, Jon can only watch in awe. It won’t be long now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The </span>
  <em>
    <span>only </span>
  </em>
  <span>person who has tried to help me since my father died at Joffrey’s word, truly help me, with no ulterior motive or scheme up their sleeve, is Jon,” Sansa says and turns to gesture at him. Jon catches the glassy glint in her eye as she turns back to Littlefinger, “My family, the last of it. And you have no power over me anymore, not here, not anywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Littlefinger seems to recover from his shock enough to start seething, a fury is building within the man. He narrows his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And just what do you intend to do? You’re just a silly girl dear Sansa, you have no sway here. Not with </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>men,” Littlefinger smiles wickedly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon clenches his fist at his words, both as an instantaneous reaction to Littlefinger’s venom and as a signal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In an instant his men move out of the shadows they’d hidden in and before Littlefinger can make the slightest sound they have him apprehended. A knife to his throat if he dares to scream. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon watches Sansa. She’s done so well. But something tells him she needs a moment longer, a few seconds to compose herself. So he steps toward this monster, this man he so loathes. And it’s Jon’s turn to smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve lost,” Jon says, “And it is your own fault. You should’ve known better really. Starks tend to outlast those around them. We have wolfblood in our veins and if you try to starve us out…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon trails off, lets the implication hang, as he continues to grin. Littlefinger’s eyes dart around the room. Jon hears Sansa approaching behind him. Littlefinger’s eyes land on her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then something strange happens. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Littlefinger glances between the two of them, rapidly, as if he is putting together a puzzle that he doesn’t quite understand. But then he comes to a realization. His pupils go wide and he shakes his head in disbelief while Jon’s man holds the blade taut against his skin, careful not to draw blood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon barely catches the words the man breathes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ned and Cat.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon flinches. Sansa stiffens for a moment but then Jon sees her reaching for something tucked in her dress. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Open your mouth,” Sansa’s words are a command. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Littlefinger tries to resist. He squirms and thrashes. But Jon’s men keep him there held firm. They force open his jaw. Sansa removes the pill from its container and drops it into his now dry mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man holding his jaw open then clamps it shut. Littlefinger doesn’t swallow. But then his eyes start to go wide and Jon can see his tongue working around in his mouth. He turns to Sansa. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles, ever so slightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dissolves on contact. Brilliant really. I’d say you have less than two minutes. Presents as heart failure, they’ll never be any the wiser,” Sansa steps closer and bends down so they’re eye to eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you for the many lessons, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lord Baelish. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I will never forget them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Littlefinger’s head lolls to the side. Sansa steps away. Jon places a hand on her back before he can second guess himself and she doesn’t move away. For a second they stand there, Jon’s two men supporting Littlefinger’s dwindling form and the two of them watching. A tableau. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His last words ring in Jon’s mind. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ned and Cat. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Was he hallucinating? Remembering? Seeing the truth that lay between the two of them?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go. Release him,” Sansa orders the men and they’re already moving. They know their roles. Jon made sure of it when he selected them. Two that he knows would take any secret to the grave. They’re already disappearing into a seldom used passage at the back of the room after they finished lowering Littlefinger’s cooling body to the floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa kneels to the ground and puts Littlefinger’s head in her lap. Jon’s hand is left hanging where it caressed her back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon. The door.” Sansa says without turning to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he is suddenly aware that their job is not done. That they’ve done the easy part. The worst is yet to come. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Jon goes to unlock the door and then steps back over Sansa, hovering, looking unsure. They lock eyes for one second, knowing they’re about to launch themselves into the unknown. But in their gaze is truth and trust. Something that Jon would die to protect, die to keep close to him. And so he nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Sansa wails. Screams at the top of her lungs for help. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The men start filing in, the people in the hall they’d left only minutes ago. There is commotion everywhere. Sansa is screaming, she’s crying for help for a Maester, for anyone. Jon is frenzied, he is frantic, trying to do what he can to help as over a dozen people try to figure out what’s happening. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Jon can’t take his eyes from Sansa amidst the chaos. Her perfect picture of grief, of utter devastation at losing her ‘father’. He can feel it in every scream and tear that rolls down her cheek. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t have to try very hard to imagine where she draws her inspiration from. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Around them, one man’s rule comes to an end. While unknown to them, their reign begins.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Luckily it goes smoothly. Even if it takes hours to get through it all. But no suspicion lands on them. And if it does, it’s not voiced. It’s deemed a tragic accident. A twist of fate too cruel. Littlefinger’s body is taken away. And Sansa maintains her veil of grief. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then there are affairs to be put in order. And the Lords of the Vale who are present ask to meet with her. It’s the most precarious part of the plan. And to her relief, her request that Jon join them is approved, and even if it's only pity for the ordeal she has gone through she will take it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And before the group of men who valiantly try to insist that they will protect her, that they can even allow her to stay in the Eyrie while they determine who will rule it, Sansa crumbles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s perfectly crafted. Rehearsed. As the truth spills from her in pieces, her true identity. Littlefinger’s “protection”, her Aunt Lysa’s true fate. All the finer pieces that will convince them to allow her to leave in peace, with Jon. With her brother. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s almost too easy when one voice insists that the Vale will send their men with them and a few others back him. The plan nears its completion and she breathes a sigh of relief as she allows the attention to fade from her. She lets Jon begin to speak about men and strategies and battle plans. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she catches the eye of the few Lords she had spoken to in private the last few weeks. The ones she had known had her sympathies. The ones who she had promised more to if they convinced the others to help her plight in the North and made sure Littlefinger’s death didn’t land at her feet if things went South. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her time here hadn’t been for nothing. And Littlefinger had never thought that some may have even preferred her kindness to his cruelty. But here she is, alive. While Littlefinger’s corpse rots away in a stone room somewhere. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she watched the light leave his eyes and she knows that when she closes her own tonight that he will be there waiting. Because killing is not easy, taking a life is not as easy as tyrants make it seem. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Sansa wishes it were). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sighs with relief when she makes it back to her chambers at the end of the night. It will be a fast turn around from here. She leaves with Jon tomorrow. The Vale will follow them in a few weeks. But her and Jon have work to do in the North, to rally the houses that they can turn against the Boltons. To get to Arya if she lives. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her only regret is Myranda. She had talked to her friend briefly, telling her the gist of what was to come. And Myranda had only shook her head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see it now. I wish you’d told me,” Myranda had rubbed her arm, “Your brother. I can hardly believe it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa hadn’t known what to say so she had merely shrugged. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A part of me always knew you were no Alayne Stone,” Myranda had smiled sadly, “I imagine we’ll meet again one day, Lady Stark.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shiver had gone up Sansa’s spine at the title.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s who I am, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa slips out of her shoes and hangs up her coat on a hook. She unties her braid and is just going to start on her dress when there’s a knock at her door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She freezes, half expecting it to be Littlefinger even though she knows it can’t be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come in,” she calls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door creaks open, and it’s Jon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A tightness forms in her chest as she recalls him today. His unwavering support. His hand on her back. She feels a mix of emotions: guilt, longing, regret, appreciation. They all swirl to make her feel unwell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon closes the door and crosses the room, stopping a few feet from her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wanted to see you,” Jon says but he doesn’t quite meet her eye, “It’s been a hard day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, you’ve seen me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa doesn’t mean to be cold. But they haven’t talked properly in days and she wants to sleep. She wants to forget for a while. She wants to not be held down by her sick desires. She wants her body to stop betraying her. So she turns from him, pretends to busy herself folding a dress hung on her chair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sansa. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Talk to me,” Jon says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice is soothing, soft and gentle. Not harsh or commanding. And it makes the breath go out of her lungs. She doesn’t turn around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have nothing to say Jon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sansa. You killed him, you were brilliant honestly. But that’s no small thing. I know it’s not. If you need to talk about it–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need to talk Jon. It’s fine. I’m fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve killed Sansa. I’ve been killed. It makes monsters out of us if we let it,” Jon lowers his voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think me a monster?” Sansa whirls on him, accusing now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s already shaking his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think your history with the man you had to kill is long and difficult to deal with. I think you’re allowed to have complex feelings about that,” Jon says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t reply and he goes on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I died. I sentenced those men to death. I saw the light go out in their eyes. And it felt good. I won’t lie. But it never felt right. Killing never feels right. It shouldn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa turns again as tears threaten to spill over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon’s hand catches her arm and she inhales sharply. He turns her back to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought. I thought you were dead Sansa,” Jon’s voice is different now, his hand seems to burn through to her skin, “And I don’t know how I didn’t see it. I’d blame the Red Woman. But I keep wondering if maybe I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to see it. If I saw Alayne because that’s who you wanted me to see but also because I didn’t want Alayne to be you, because if she were you…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If she was me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If she was you. I couldn’t…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon… we’re the last of us. I don’t know. I don’t think Arya is in Winterfell. Maybe she is. But when you showed up in the Eyrie’s hall. It was a sunrise after the longest night and I shouldn’t have done what I did but–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad you did,” Jon stops her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa blinks. Jon is so close to her. And she can’t quite comprehend their words to each other. Can’t let it be real. Every conversation she’s had with him since he came to the Eyrie runs through her mind. That night runs through her mind too. His lips on her. Rough but soft. Forbidden but welcome all at the same time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sansa,” Jon’s eyes hesitate and she thinks she would give anything for him to keep saying her name like that, “If you don’t want–” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sansa cuts him off before she even knows what she intends to tell him, and so they stand there suspended. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon sighs and brings his free hand to his nose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I shouldn’t. I–I should protect you. You’re–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need protecting Jon. I need–I need you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she’s said it. She draws herself closer to him. Places a hand on his chest, feels his heart pounding through his shirt. He looks down to where she touches him. And then their eyes meet again when he looks back up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sansa, I–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then his lips are on hers. Or maybe hers are on his. In the end she isn’t sure who moves first. Only that this time when their lips collide, there is no hesitation. No rapid fire stream of thoughts telling her to stop. Only one voice propelling her forward. </span>
  <em>
    <span>More. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon cups her face and she wraps her arms around his neck, trying to be as physically close as she can manage. After a few more moments Jon removes his mouth from hers and kisses down her jaw, lingers on her neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She lets out a contented sigh that turns to a moan of pleasure somewhere in the middle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Jon is hoisting her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and finds his lips again as he carries her over to her bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he sets her down and they go careening into whatever this has turned into, she has one clear thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tomorrow they will go North. And after that they will fight for their lives to get back to Winterfell. And who can say what will happen after that. But for tonight they are free from that obligation, untethered to that future rolling out before them. Tonight they are Jon and Sansa. Not Alayne. Not the Lord Commander. Not Lady Lannister or a Northern bastard. They are only Jon and Sansa and between them lies a desperate need. Need spurned from regret and mistakes, but need all the same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she won’t find it in her heart to second guess that tonight. She hopes she never does.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <strong>end.</strong>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>talk to me in the comments about jonsa, about alayne and the Eyrie and about anything honestly, I'm really down the Jonsa rabbit hole again. it felt rather cathartic to write this so i'm glad it's out in the world now and i hope you enjoy it as much as i do!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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